Salvation
by Kamagua
Summary: Set after Death Wing's demise, the world is engulfed in war as vile cults of the Burning Legion and the dark armies of the Nightmare fight for supremacy.  One man, his soul sold to the darkness, finds himself yearning for a life he lost so very long ago.
1. Chapter 1: Redridge

Home.

That is what he used to call it.

Home.

His eyes, lit like smoldering embers, peer into the darkened streets of Redridge's bustling heart. Street lights flicker illuminating the small children at play. Both seem to work in unison in such a way you could almost say the light and the little-ones were one and the same.

_The master need his army, Son of the Burning Mark_, spews a sinister voice into Denton's mind. _The master needs his army!_

His eyes, spewing flares as if a raging inferno, sweep the blackened abodes, their walls dark say for the streaming light which flows from open windows - beacons of hope amongst a sea of uncertainty.

_Shadows lurk everywhere! _

_Do not let them consume them first!_

_Do not -_

Denton takes a deep breath before he grinds his boot across a rough stone, releasing a shrill screech. It is a horrific sound, but it is exactly what he needed.

"Denton, my boy," barks Denton's superior, Zan. "Why must you do that?"

He points at the boy's boot as he wraps his arm and the back of his neck, the cold steel almost drawing sensation to Denton's flesh. Almost.

"You know it bothers me so. And what about the people, Denton? One can hear that noise of yours from miles away." Zan gives Denton a friendly shake. "You know it doesn't help any, boy. Such hunger can only be quelled by sheer satisfaction."

Denton sighs heavily before calmly removing himself from his superior's grip. He casts a disgruntled gaze back at the smiling, pale-fleshed, man. A sense of nausea grips Denton as he peers into the hallowed orbs that were once called eyes. Zan's bald head also draws Denton's attention, its sheen a disgusting sight when coupled with the old man's flaring eyes.

"What do you think, Denton?" Zan spits with rather unnerving glee. "Do you think they will call us Death Knights again?"

A crackling laughter, only describable as insects popping within burning wood, is emitted by their third member, Tolvin. The boy heartily replies in Denton's stead. "Oh, they will scream it for certain!" He cackles his vile cackle once more. "The big bad Death Knights have come to get us! Ha!"

Denton peers with utter disgust as Tolvin comes into view. He has never liked that man. Boy. Child. Whatever you want to call that thing. Sometimes he cannot help but wonder if the boy developed his current state from their masters or if he was simply born this way.

"Insulting, really," Tolvin groans as his once joyous smile fades into a frown. "Death Knights don't wield fire. Those infants use their chill and death as if it was something impressive." The boy spits at the ground, the fluid burning the area as it fests like a soar upon the soil. "How I hope a few show their faces. I want to sear the fear into their flesh!"

Once more, the boy releases a sickening cackle. Denton cannot help but smack his lips as one might after sucking a lemon or partaking in a rotting carcass. He doesn't know why he hates that boy so much. He just knows, one day or another that is going to wipe that smile off his face.

Tolvin notices Denton's stare, yet heeds not its deeper meaning; instead he simply smiles a greater smile and gargles forth, "Denton, what do you think?"

Denton waits for a moment, hoping the boy will continue on. Sadly, Tolvin stares, rotted teeth and soot-soaked gums exposed, as he waits for a response.

Denton sighs, "About what, Tolvin?"

"Do you think she will be here?"

"Who?"

"Who? Don't you pretend you don't know. That harpy."

Denton peers deeply into the boy's empty pools. He cannot help but feel a bit uneasy when he looks into them. Everyone here has the same void eyes, but Tolvin? There is something about that boy that seems extraordinarily sinister.

"I hope she is!" Tolvin continues. "I want to be the one taste that look in her eye. The one we all know all so well." He groans as one might after partaking in a fine apple pie. "I shall feast upon it! That terrible, horrified, scrumptious look one gets as they are dying. Mmmm."

The boy shivers and groans again. Denton knows he would be lying if were to say that the slaughter didn't appeal to a part of him, but to savor it as Tolvin does? Well, that seems a bit…unnecessary.

Tolvin cackles again, "She will be here, Denton. You watch."

Finally, as Denton hoped the minute the boy turned his attention towards him, Tolvin looks away. His attention at long last lost. Sadly, the boy's words dance within his head. He, honestly, hopes the woman doesn't show. Besides the fact the wench and her crew of banshee women have slew a handful of their brothers, she makes him feel uncomfortable.

The way she moves. The way she fights. The way she even smells draws back old memories he would rather let rot within the back of mind. Every time that wench shows up, bow in hand, fury at the ready, he cannot help but remember a life long lost. Of days that seem so very long ago. Of his family. His friends. And his love.

But knows they are all but memories.

He was, after all, the one that killed them.


	2. Chapter 2: Rotten Memories

"Ok, ladies, we have wasted enough time," barks Zan as he shifts ahead of the small pack. "I think it's about time we filled this land with flames and bathed the heavens with pleasant screams!"

Tolvin giggles maniacally, "I see what you did there, boss. Pleasant dreams. Screams. Ha!"

Zan shakes his head, "Boy, don't hurt yourself now." He slips a heavy, pitch-black helm over his face – his eyes intensified within the shroud. "Thinking wasn't why you picked your path or why we picked you."

Tolvin claps as if a gleeful school boy. With quivering palm he glides the heavy steel over his head. Denton smirks as the boy's face vanishes. If only the boy would wear it all the time. Oh, how nice it would be to never...

"You plan on joining us, Denton?" Zan firmly asks.

Denton sighs. He knows what he has to do. It doesn't really bother him, honestly, it just feels like a nuisance to him. Swiftly, Denton pulls out his helm that he had tucked under his arm hours ago. He bounces the rather overweight, perfectly molded steel within his hands as he gazes into the abyssal cavity. It is a seemingly endless pit fitted by rounded walls that appear as if stolen from the night sky. Numerous holes line the faceplate that holds directly in between his fingers, yet not an ounce of light passes through. A dark object. A dark face. And he earned it.

Swiftly, as one might swallow an egg whole or ingest vile medication, he tilts his head forward, lifts his hand, and throws his head back. The metal clings to his hair and face alike. Such a perfect fit, this dark casket. A foul stench of charred material and burnt matter wafts upon his nostril as he adjusts the metal so he can see clearly. He takes a deep breath.

Now he is precisely as he should be - the world around him ignorant to his identity. A faceless man within a hollowed helm

"Shall we make our entrance, boys?" Zan chuckles, his laughter ricocheting within his iron.

The three, with a calm, steady beat, march in a short line shoulder to shoulder down the dirt path. Quite the show they could be, this trio of ironclad beasts. One might confuse them as something more. As something greater. Even the kids, whose attention is catch by the twinkling embers that are the villain's eyes, find themselves at awe. Some might confuse them as actors on a stage: three heroes returning gloriously from battle, their pride heavily upon their shoulders. A grand sight for all and all those who dare bear witness. And, the whole town stirring as the three crunch loudly forth, awakens to see what stirs their town.

In minutes, the street lights that protected the children now lights up half the populace. Woman in night garments cling to their men. The men cling to their courage as they wade foolishly into the night sky. They all come, man, woman, and child, to see the show.

But their actors are no heroes.

They come not with pride upon their shoulder, but despair upon their heel. They come not with glory of battle, but with blood of disdain. They yearn not for themselves, but the horrors that are about to unfold.

Two of the beasts laugh quietly, their show of great humor. One moves quietly, eying the crowd with apathy. Yet all three move with the same intentions. No matter their expression or their unseen actions, they come with the same guilt.

Zan chuckles before waving a hand at Denton, "Denton, my boy, care to begin? I do believe we have left our audience in dire suspense, don't you think?"

He chuckles again, but Denton finds no humor in what is about to begin. It is simply what must be done. It is what has to be done. He takes those words and marches forward. In a matter of seconds, he becomes the focus of the crowd. And he surveys his audience with calm perseverance.

Denton catches their eyes, one by one. He feeds upon them, one by one. And as he does, a torrent of memories flood his mind. Dozens upon dozens of thoughts he lost he had burned with the fire he so holds to within. It is only one, though, that skews his vision and alters his entire reality.

For a moment, if but only a flash of a second, he sees the road calm and bear. The sun pours from above and fills the once darkened streets with beauty. Movement stirs from the dashing feet of a small, reckless boy. He runs so fast. He moves without a care. For this boy runs with all hope, all force, after the wind.

But it is the wind that finds him. It clings to the boy's chest and tugs at his hair. It pulls at his clothing and tries to drag him, but it means no harm. It is simply playing with the boy as he does it. The two are as if one. The wind and the child. Together they form the epitome of innocence. Together they form what the man lost so long ago. Freedom…

And as he stares, the world in perfect serenity, a young girl cries out to him. "Slow down, Gil! Slow down before you hurt yourself!" Try as she might, he does not listen to her. Though her words as if a melody plucked from an angel's harp, he cannot stop now. He may relish every moment spent with her, but he must keep moving. He cannot lose it now. This freedom. His freedom…

Alas, this moment, but a flash of a second, fades to black. The night sky fills the heavens and washes away the beauty. All that remains now is the massing crowd, the blackened streets, and memories he can no longer bear.

With a heavy palm, he lifts his hand. The metal weighs down wearily. This very iron begins to glow as Denton feeds his fury into it. The once grim metal is heated, beaming an unholy orange. It is a silent ode to his new self. A deadly ode to his darkened soul. As fire bristles upon the wildly heated steel, he cannot help but think to himself. As a fireball is sent hurling upon the night sky, he cannot help cringe. And as the small barn is set ablaze, he cannot help but be certain…

…it is time to rid himself of those memories…


End file.
